


We'll Go a Few Rounds

by ChibiSquirt



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Armor Kink, BDSM, Begging, Burnplay, Corsetry, Dom Tony Stark, Established Relationship, Fingerfucking, Identity Porn, M/M, Nipple Clamps, Nipple Torture, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Oral Sex, Sub Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2019-01-22 08:17:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12477260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChibiSquirt/pseuds/ChibiSquirt
Summary: Steve and Tony were planning to play tonightanyway,but then Tony showed up in his Halloween costume.





	We'll Go a Few Rounds

**Author's Note:**

> This is all Sabrecmc's fault. Or-- okay, and some other people, too: the SBB Survivor Slack group has been cheering me on all day. *And* we can blame the organizers of the MCU Kink Bingo challenge, because they gave me the card (this fills my G3 spot, "Nipple Torture"). The point is, this deliciously cheerful filth is not entirely my responsibility!
> 
> (That is a lie, it is entirely my responsibility.)
> 
> This is not identity porn in the sense of "one character does not know the other's secret identity," it's identity porn in the sense of "one character is switching back and forth between identities". Essentially, the boys are having a good time differentiating between Tony and Iron Man. For Tony it's a kink, for Steve it's no problem to go along with it. 
> 
> That's the more unusual kink; the actual square I'm filling here is Nipple Torture, which I think is more straightforward, and is definitely present throughout this fic. BDSM is also present throughout this fic, I thought in about equal parts. If a Kink Bingo mod wants to stop by and tell me it's more that than Nipple Torture, I will cheerfully accept it and switch the square, but I was pretty careful to carry the Nipple Torture theme through the whole piece (and I'm going for my G row, while BDSM is in O).
> 
> Unbeta'ed, so if you see something, say something!

Steve paused just inside the door to Tony’s office.  Well, sort of; one of Tony's offices, anyway.  Tony had about five offices, but this was the one in the penthouse suite, the one connected to Tony’s lab.  Also the one connected to Tony and Steve’s bedroom. 

Steve was there because, earlier this afternoon, Tony had left a note in _Steve’s_ office, a post-it reading, _Come up to my office—wear one (1) of these,_ stuck to a box that opened for Steve’s thumbprint.  

The box had contained a butt plug, a set of nipple clamps, and a gag, so Steve was feeling pretty hopeful.

Steve hadn’t thought wearing a gag while he wandered through the hallways of Avengers Tower was a good idea, even if it was a very short trip, and he also didn’t feel much like that taking his pants down in the office, which made his choice fairly easy.  He set the clamps loosely—didn’t want them cutting off circulation if he wound up wearing them for a long time—and, pausing to think, slipped his belt off behind the cover of his desk, then headed up the stairs for exactly one floor before changing his mind and taking the elevator for the remaining three.  

Because there was _jiggling,_ it turned out.

And now he was in Tony’s office, and Tony was not there.  

He looked around for instructions—Tony might have left a note, or he could have left orders with JARVIS to instruct Steve from there; he had done that before—but there was nothing.  Steve frowned and stepped into the center of the room, clasping his hand behind his back in parade rest—his nipples pinged with a burning sort of not-pain-yet as the clamps pressed against his shirt—and waited.  

He didn’t have to wait long.  There were three doors to this office:  the corridor from the elevator, the hallway from Tony’s and Steve’s bedroom, and the Secret Passage (which was not a secret, and was really more of a staircase than a passage) from Tony’s lab.  Steve had positioned himself facing the bedroom door, since that seemed like the most likely candidate, but it was the Secret Passage that opened after a mere two minutes had passed.

Iron Man stepped out.

Steve stared, and swallowed to moisten a suddenly dry throat.  His cock had been half-hard in his khaki trousers from the set-up—Steve liked it when Tony gave him instructions to follow, even more when those instructions came with props—but now blood was surging south in a rush at the sight in front of him.

It was definitely Tony in the Iron Man armor... and he was even more dressed up than usual.

The jet boots, rather than their usual red and gold, had been repainted; they were black, now.  The groin plate had been repainted, too.  If that weren’t enough, black fishnets crawled their way up Iron Man’s hydraulically muscular legs, ending in wide, reinforced lace bands around the thick titanium thighs.  

There were garters.  Steve’s next breath in had more than a bit of wheeze to it.  The garters hooked into the tops of the groin plate itself, not into a belt, which meant Tony had re-machined that piece for this, not just repainted it.  

And above _that_ was the corset.  

It was black, and it was leather, a soft, supple-looking kind that Steve was willing to bet had cost thousands of dollars to work.  Gold tooling around the top and bottom tied it in thematically with the armor.  There were no straps; it was held on solely by the tightness of its lacing around the Iron Man’s torso.  It nipped in around the armored waist, and even though Steve _knew_ that much of that shaping was an illusion based on the chest reinforcement Tony had loaded the armor with, and because that was where he stored his ammo; even though Steve  _knew_ that this only gave the _illusion_ of a V-taper silhouette, and he _knew_ that Tony wasn’t _really_ that stacked, and anyway there was _no way_ the corset, made out of mere _leather,_ could actually be cinching in the _armor_...  

...the illusion was still  _damned_ _good._  

Steve licked his lower lip quickly before the drool could actually drop off of it and descend to the carpeted floor.  He planned to be on his knees on that floor very soon, after all; best to keep it clean.

Iron Man tilted his head at him. _“Okay,”_ said his mechanical voice, _“This is the part where you tell me if this is hilarious, or just cheesy.”_

Steve gulped and shook his head, then cleared his voice and spoke for good measure.  “No,” he said.  His voice came out fervent, almost worshipful.  The Iron Man armor didn’t blink; it couldn’t.  But the head untilted, and then tilted again the other way:  surprise.

_"No?”_

Steve shook his head again, fiercely.  His cock ached where it pressed insistently against his zipper.  “No,” he repeated.  “Not cheesy.  Not hilarious.”

 _“Really?”_ Tony actually sounded _disappointed.  “Because I was half considering this for Halloween, I could call it the Iron Maiden.  But if it’s not funny—”_

Steve blurted, “Please fuck me.”

Tony didn’t say anything, just studied him for a second.  _“Oh,”_ said Iron Man.  The vocal scramblers didn’t always give Steve a thrill down his spine, but they sometimes did, and they _sure as hell_ were doing it right now.   _“You_ mean _that.”_

Steve eyed the place where the stockings wrapped around metallic thighs, and imagined being forced to lick the metal above them, a gauntleted hand holding him tightly by the hair.  “Yes.  _Please_ yes."

Iron Man took two steps towards him.  The boots of the Iron Man armor had some lift in them, mostly to give room for the jets, Tony claimed, but Steve was pretty sure there were a couple extra inches in these black ones; they must have been re-machined, too, then.  Tony was really too good to Steve.

 _“I was planning to get your opinion on this,_ then _fuck you.  You’re ruining my schedule for the evening, here.”_ He didn’t really sound all that upset about it, though.

Steve narrowed his eyes; Tony loved it when Steve got specific, but it still made Steve feel awkward and small inside.  Still, the results were pretty inevitably worth it...  ““I need you to finger me, please.  You could bend me over your desk, and finger me until I can’t—”  His mind went blank for a moment at the mental image, and then he recovered:  “—Until I can’t stand it anymore, and I have to—to come, all over your desk—”

That low, staticky noise was what happened when Tony growled inside the suit.  

“—And, and then you can lay me down in the puddle, and—get it all over my _tits,_ and then—oh, God—”  

Steve’s dick was agony, now, pressing up against the rough cotton of his briefs.  Steve would have worn the more comfortable shorts he usually preferred, but Tony had hinted that he would want something like this before he left their bedroom that morning, and Tony liked the look of Steve’s ass in the tighty-whiteys.  Something about the way they cupped the cheeks...  

“—And then you can, uh...  Slap my face, and my tits, and uh...”  

Iron Man stirred.  _“That’s enough.”_

“Oh, thank God.”

The electronic chuckle should not have made Steve feel so warm and cared for.   _“I know,”_ Iron Man mused.  _"You don’t like putting it into words.  But it’s very helpful; you did a good job.”_

Another wave of warmth swept over Steve at his words, and Steve dropped, gratefully, to one knee, then both, his arms still clasped behind his back, toeing his socks and shoes off before he could become too distracted to do it.  He couldn’t see his own face, but he was sure the expression on it was just embarrassing; it felt that way, felt infatuated and grateful and all the other things Steve hated to be so obvious about.

Iron Man chuckled again and stepped closer, stopping just close enough that if Steve leaned forward, he would be able to nuzzle the armored quads of the suit.  Steve didn’t lean forward, though; he didn’t have permission yet.  Instead, he just looked up adoringly as Iron Man put one hand on his shoulder, the other curving around the side of his neck.  Steve pressed into the touch, hoping to show how glad he was, how happy that Tony was willing to do these things with him.

 _“Good job,”_ Iron Man repeated.  He raised his hand from Steve’s shoulder and slipped his thumb into Steve’s mouth.  Steve whined faintly at the taste of metal.  There was a faint undertaste of some kind of oil, too; leather oil, Steve realized after a moment, from putting on the corset. 

Iron Man pushed slightly with his thumb, pinning Steve’s tongue down; Steve whined more loudly, this time.  Then Iron Man dragged the digit sideways, stretching Steve’s mouth out, before pulling it free and replacing it with two fingers, the index and middle.  The armor made his hands thicker, bulkier, and the two digits filled Steve’s mouth almost too much.  Steve sucked on them like they were a cock, sliding down them as far as he could.  

_“Jesus, Steve.  That eager, baby?”_

Steve squinched his eyes closed.  He hated being called that, _hated_ it, but he hated it in a way that made everything so much _better,_ and Tony knew it.  

_“That’s right, baby.  Suck ‘em down, get ‘em nice and wet for me.”_

Steve groaned and drooled around the fingers, so far down they were almost in his throat, until Iron Man shifted the hand curled around Steve’s cheek into his hair and pulled him back.  Steve pushed against his grip at little, testing it using his strength, but Iron Man was as strong as he was, and all it did was make tears spring into Steve’s eyes from the sting of his hair pulling.

_“Tsk, Steve; you know better.”_

And then Iron Man slapped him across the face.  

He used the hand whose fingers had just been in Steve’s mouth, and he didn’t do it hard; at first, all Steve felt was the faint thread of coolness where some of his own spit had rubbed off on his cheek.  Then the stinging hit, stronger than it would have been from a normal person’s slap, but less than it would be from a punch.  And _then_ the rush of humiliation:  some of it from the slap itself, but more of it from how much Steve had liked being hit.

And then the gratitude.  Tony had had to be very careful to calibrate that slap, Steve knew; in the armor, it was all too easy to do it too hard and cause real damage.  Instead, he had done it just right, had _always_ done it just right.  Steve moaned and pushed into the hand on his head, the closest he could come to saying _thank you_ right now.

_“There we go.  Jesus, you love this; I always manage to forget how much you love it.”_

Iron Man patted his cheek once, twice, then grabbed him by the front of his shirt—a polo, Steve had been planning to be in the office all day—and threw him towards the desk.  Steve stumbled the last two steps under his own power and let himself fall face-down across it; there were a few papers and a knickknack or two on top, and Steve enthusiastically flailed his arms enough to shove some of the papers off to drift dramatically to the floor.  He tilted his head so that he was hitting the desk with his cheek, not his chin, and then, deliberately, shifted so that the nipple clamps pressed against the wine-colored blotter.

He groaned at the shot of pain it gave him, a mingling of humiliation, arousal, and delight.  Behind him, he heard the heavy steps of Iron Man’s boots pacing towards him.

 _“You look good.”_ Iron Man’s gauntlet ran down his back, ruffling Steve’s polo, and Steve whimpered as it rucked up the clamps.  _“You look very good.  Bent over Stark’s desk, I like it; I should keep you here like this all the time.”_

Steve gasped at the mental image, and again at phrase _Stark’s desk._ Precome had oozed from the head of his cock and he shifted, trying to make sure his erection was in a comfortable position against the wide wooden surface of the desk’s side.  

Tony let him do it, and that was how Steve knew what was coming.  

As soon as he had settled into a comfortable position, Iron Man shoved him from behind, pressing him hard into the wood with hands and thighs and hips.  Steve could smell the leather corset, the warm, musky scent wafting in from just over his shoulder.  He shouted wordlessly at the press of the clamps into his nipples, hard and painful now; he was rewarded with another low, electronic laugh.  _“What was that list, again?”_ Iron Man mused.  _"There was something you wanted me to do...”_

Steve went cold and hot again as he realized Tony was going to make him repeat it.  “Oh, God,” he moaned.  Iron Man slapped him on the ass for it, gently, but hard enough rock him against the desk again.

 _“None of that,”_ he scolded.   _“You did it once, baby, you can say it again.  Beg me for it.”_

Steve closed his eyes tight and swallowed, pressing his fingers flat against the smooth, fine grain of the wood.  The blotter under his cheek smelled good too, he realized; there was a whiff of some kind of leather cleaner.  

“F-Finger me,” he said shakily.  “I want—fuck—”  He paused, rocking the nipple clamps against the desk for a bonus shot of agony.  “I want you to finger me, take me, on your desk— _FUCK!_ ”

The smack on his ass this time was harder, stinging even through the khakis and the briefs.  

“Oh, God, oh God, I want—please—Iron Man—I want you to—to take me on _Tony Stark’s_ desk, and finger me open, and then—”

He didn’t manage to finish this sentence, either, because Tony—Iron Man—had grabbed the back of his khakis and torn, ripping them right in half and dropping them on the ground at both of their feet.  Armored hands had cupped Steve’s ass, then, and Steve knew Tony was appreciating the way he looked in the briefs, just the way Steve had known he would when he put them on that morning.  A metallic thumb rubbed down the crease of Steve’s thigh, right at the seam of the plain white cotton.  

Steve trembled against the desk and resolutely didn’t beg for more.

 _“So good, baby,”_ Iron Man marveled.   _“God, look at you, Steve.”_

In contrast to the way he had taken off Steve’s pants, Tony eased the briefs down gently.  He didn’t even take them off very far, letting the elastic upper hem sit just under the globes of Steve’s ass, a very faint constraint on Steve’s movement that they both knew either one of them could tear through in an instant.  

The room was silent for a moment except for Steve’s harsh panting, his breath hot against the wide surface beneath him.  Then with a squirting sound a stream of liquid—lube, Steve identified—hit his ass and his crack, deliberately messy, slippery as hell.  He imagined what it must look like, for a moment, his own upturned ass, the liquid dripping over top of it like hot icing glaze on doughnut.  His knees were spread, but not far; Tony would have, at most, a bare glimpse of his hole.  

Gauntleted fingers herded an ooze of lube down Steve’s crack, coming to rest with one finger pressed lightly against Steve’s hole.  Steve waited for Tony to move, to sink into him, but nothing happened; he waited some more, and realized with a groan what Tony hesitating for.

“Please,” he said, gritting his teeth.  “Please, T—Iron Man.  Please, _do it.”_

There was a faint catch of breath, faithfully transmitted by the suit’s mic, and then a cold, titanium finger breached Steve, long and deliciously thick.  Steve moaned and pressed his face into the blotter, wanton and loud, fingers flexing against the desk, knees not quite buckling but definitely going weak.  The angle pressed his underpants into his dick _just enough,_ just enough to hurt but not enough to _really_ hurt.  He tried, unobtrusively, to press back against the finger slowly, _slowly_ entering him, but all he got was an amused _“No”_ in response.

Tony fingered him open meticulously, his other hand occasionally resting on one slippery asscheek to keep Steve from rushing the process.  At one point Steve even tried _really_ pushing, pushing hard even for _him,_ but servos whined and hydraulics strained, and Steve had stayed right where he was as the Iron Forefinger pushed against his prostate.

He tried begging, too; sometimes that worked.  But not tonight:  Tony just praised him for being vocal and tugged at his rim from the inside.  Slowly, slowly, as Steve squirmed and pleaded beneath him, grinding his hips and nipples against the surface of the desk until he wanted to scream, Iron Man opened him up, thrusting steadily in and out with his gauntleted forefinger until Steve’s rim was loose, almost unresisting despite the armor’s girth.

Eventually, Iron Man slowed his strokes, and then stopped, resting, waiting with his finger sunk deep inside of Steve.  It took Steve long, syrup-slow minutes to come back to himself, realizing that Tony must be waiting on _him._

“Wha’sit?  God, God, Tony—what do you want?”  Steve had gone limp beneath Tony, his squirms the only resistance, letting Iron Man fuck his hole as thoroughly as he wanted.  Now, he was being asked to _do_ something, and it was taking his brain a minute to come back online.  

There were two points of fire on his chest; Steve didn’t mind too much.

 A pleased hum came from the speakers behind him.  _“I’m waiting for you to ask for another one,”_ Iron Man said, _“nicely.  You know how I want it.”_

Steve groaned. _Nicely_ meant using all the words he had such a hard time using, all in order with nothing else in between them.  It was hard even when he wasn’t this far down, and Tony _knew_ that, and that was _why he was doing this—_

Abruptly, Steve became aware of a second hard finger waiting at his entrance, slippery and cool.  The first finger had warmed by now, adjusted to the temperature of Steve’s body.  

Steve shivered.  He could do this; he _could._ All he had to do was take a deep breath, and marshal his thoughts, and get all the words in the right order before he said—

“Please, Iron Man, fuck me with another finger— _oh God—!”_

Tony took him at his word, sinking the second finger in hard and fast.  Steve felt the stretch and the burn, but pushed back back into it to get away from the more painful burn in his chest.  His eyes watered, and it took a second to realize that, despite sliding in fast, the two fingers had stayed rooted deep; they weren’t moving, after all.  

No vocal scrambler on _Earth_ could make it not sound like Tony as Iron Man said, _“I’m gonna need you to do better, baby.”_  

Steve moaned and rocked as much as he could, pinned between the desk and the gauntlet, split on two enormous, fat fingers.  No words, no _words,_ he had _no words_ in him, couldn’t think how to answer...

Iron Man prodded with the fingers still deep inside Steve, knuckles knocking against Steve’s rim, and Steve shuddered, trying to pull himself back together.  Okay; okay, he could do this, he _could,_ he just needed to—

“Please fuck me hard, Iron Man, please pound me with your— _fuck—_ with your— _oh God—_ gauntlets, please—oh, _Tony—”_  

Steve actually screamed as he came against the side of the desk, dick pulsing, shooting over the wood and his briefs and everything, coming spectacularly on Tony’s fingers, thrashing even as he was held in place by a heavy, titanium hand.  He shook in place, then convulsed again, a second wave coming over him, dripping down his slightly-spread thighs and onto the tattered remnants of his second-favorite khakis.

Servos whined as Iron Man petted his back, smoothing over the polo shirt, ruffling his hair as he drifted down.  Tony kept up the strokes as Steve came back to himself, and then, when Steve showed signs of being able to think again, coaxed Steve gently upward, easing him around and repositioning so that Iron Man was sitting on the desk—it groaned, but took the weight—and Steve was sitting on the armor, the soft black leather pressing into his back.  Somewhere in the process, Steve’s briefs had finally been removed, tossed beside them on the desk, which meant Iron Man’s fishnets were currently working a crosshatch into Steve’s ass.  Steve found himself not minding much, though.  Not minding at all, actually.

 _“Alright there, Cap?”_ Iron Man asked, pressing gently on Steve’s forehead until Steve leaned his head back against the pauldron.   _“Not too rough?”_

Steve groaned.  “Coulda been a bit rougher,” he admitted, and Tony barked a laugh that got distorted into nonsense by the scrambler.  

_“Let me guess:  you could do this all day?”_

Steve’s smile was stupid on his face, pleased and dopey.  “Pretty sure we’re at least into evening, now.”

 _“You know, I had plans.  I was going to just show the new outfit, then change clothes,_ then _take you down.  You ruffled my order, here.”_

“I, uh...”  Steve coughed.  “I liked the corset.  Uh.  A _lot,_ actually.”  

 _“I should’ve known.  Old-fashioned, right?”_ Tony’s hand in the gauntlet ruffled Steve’s hair with a surprising amount of gentleness, then dropped to tug at the hem of Steve’s polo.   _“Here, take this off.”_ And then, as the shirt was tossed across the room with a flutter, _“Waitaminute!  Don’t tell me you’re still wearing the clamps?!”_

Steve was.  The helmet looked distinctly nonplussed as Tony looked over Steve’s shoulder, down at his nipples which were vividly purple, bruised and swollen from the pinchers of the clamps.   _“Take those off,”_ Iron Man ordered flatly.   _“You should have_ said, _Steve.”_

Steve shivered, and complied, wincing.  The clamps hurt even worse coming off than they had when he was just wearing them; it had been close to an hour since he put them on, at this point, and the aching, throbbing soreness when he took them off pulled tiny, half-vocalized grunts from him despite his best efforts.  Tony didn't say anything soothing as he did it, either; he just flicked the right nipple with a metal finger until Steve shouted and twisted in his arms.

Half-time, clearly, was over; the game was on again.  

“Sorry, Iron Man.”  He sat up, struggling, fighting his way out of the armor’s embrace.  But Iron Man put a hand on Steve's chest and reeled him in again, hard.  “Oof!  I thought you knew, seeing as you—oh—uh, Tony—left me the three options, and two of them were obviously, well...”

 _“Uh-huh.”_  The scramblers managed to make that sound particularly menacing. _“Well.  Can’t have you lying on your front anymore, can we?”_ Steve started to say _No,_ but before he could get his mouth open, the gauntlet closed around his chin and throat, shaking his head back and forth _for_ him.  Steve’s heart slammed into overdrive at the feel of _weapon near throat!!!,_ but before he could object, Iron Man let go again.   _“That’s_ right,” he said with relish.  _“We’ll have to rearrange this, won’t we?  Have to make sure you can’t hurt yourself.”_

Iron Man lifted, hoisting Steve in the air by his waist, then stood, turned, and dumped Steve on the desk again, this time on his back.  He pulled him to the edge of the desk; the blotter, pinned beneath Steve’s hips, slid across the surface like a home plate on the dried-out dirt of a baseball diamond.  Iron Man pinned Steve to the desk with one heavy hand against his sternum, then scooped up Steve’s discarded briefs, mopping the jizz off the side of the desk with them before crumpling them up and shoving them into Steve’s mouth.  Steve felt his eyes cross at the taste, and, although he had been propping himself up on his elbows and pushing against the gauntlet, now he allowed himself to fall back to the surface of the desk.  His head tipped down over the far edge of the desk, showing off his throat.

This was going to be _so good..._

Before Steve could react, Iron Man had charged one of the repulsors; Steve could hear it without looking, an ascending whine, but without any explosive payoff at the end.  Instead, after a heart-pounding second, the whine dropped pitch as quickly as it had risen; Tony had charged, and then un-charged, the repulsors, and Steve couldn’t quite see _why—_

The circular plate on the armor’s palm where the weapon would have discharged was just shy of _burningly hot_ when Tony set it against Steve’s stomach, the temperature of an overheated laptop or a thick-walled mug filled with tea.  Steve shouted into the gag and threw his head back, but there was nothing but air beneath him, and it did nothing to alleviate the pain of it.  

The overclocked repulsor felt even worse when it pressed to his nipple, the burning combining with the already-swollen flesh, much too sensitive now that the clamps were gone, so that Steve flat-out _screamed._ He jerked his head up again and stared at the round, red mark it had left across his tit, his mouth watering into the briefs and his throat aching at the sight.  Tony had pulled back quickly at the scream, but now he watched Steve, tilting the helmet to the side; Steve gasped through a mouthful of soiled cotton and teared up, sobbing in pain even as his dick was hard enough to use as a weapon.

Eventually, he coughed and let his head sag back.  “Iron Man,” he pleaded, and even though it came out through the gag garbled as hell, mostly stress patterns and vowels, there was no mistaking that phrase for _Tony._   “God, _Iron Man,_ please!”  He wasn’t sure what he was begging for, exactly; not mercy, really, especially not since he had used the right name for this game.

Whatever it was he was asking for, though, it _wasn’t_ for Tony to cheerfully pseudo-charge the repulsor once more.  

Steve had half a moment to brace for it, this time, and sure enough, the repulsor came down against the other clamp-tortured nipple.  It was almost worse, now, even though, paradoxically, it hurt less; something about knowing it was coming, something about not wanting to scream this time...  Steve convulsed, his legs kicking up, bracing against the armor and shoving him backwards.  At the last second, he pulled himself up, into a sitting position, the change in momentum all that kept him from scooting right off the far side of the desk.

Iron Man took the opportunity to slap him across the face again.   _“Is that it?”_ Iron Man asked.  _“This is what you said you wanted, isn’t it?  ‘Finger you until you can’t take it,’ you said.  ‘Until you come all over Stark’s desk.’  How’s it taste, baby?”_

Steve groaned as loud as he could.  His dick was hard and leaking against his stomach; his cheek tingled where the slap had reddened it, and his nipples were on fire.  He knew what was coming next, and he hated it, and he wanted it _so bad._

 _“What else did you say, baby...?”_  Tony absolutely remembered what else Steve had said.   _“Slap your face, right?”_ He used the other hand for the slap, this time, and just the fingers, still gentle even with the overpowered suit because this wasn’t, actually, about hurting Steve.  _"And slap your tits.  Wait, have we done that one yet?”_

Steve moaned into the gag and tried to close his legs, even as he shook his head.

 _“No,”_ Iron Man said, answering his own question and issuing an order, both at once.  _“Hands, baby.  Hold ‘em for me.”_  When Steve reluctantly presented his wrists, Tony immediately re-positioned them, moving Steve’s hands until he was holding his own pecs squished together like a girl’s, the deep red and purple of the nipples standing out proud.   _“Just like that, baby.  Good job.”_

Steve moaned into the gag again as Tony circled the desk, coming up behind Steve and wrapping both arms around him.  One hand—the one with the cool repulsor—came around Steve’s cheek, holding his head steady without touching his neck; the other, Iron Man raised in the air beside Steve, perfectly positioned to bring down across his plumped up chest.

Tony wiggled the fingers.  _“You were begging before, baby; you’re gonna do it again.”_

Steve whined through his nose, but his fingers were betraying him, tightening on his pecs in anticipation.  Iron Man laughed electronically at him. _“Come on, baby...”_

Steve worked the briefs pointedly with his teeth, then made deliberately-inarticulate noises and raised an eyebrow.  

 _“Oh, did you want your mouth back...?”_ Tony grabbed a protruding cotton corner and tugged.  Steve gratefully spat the soiled, now-saliva-soaked briefs out, and they tumbled down onto the desk with a splat.  As soon as Steve had his mouth free, though, the Iron Man mask tipped in towards his ear, so that Steve could hear the electric buzz of the speaker under his voice:   _“Now, beg.”_

Steve shuddered hard, and opened his mouth.  “Please," he blurted.  "Please, Iron Man, slap my tits, hurt me, make me scream—”

The slap came down perfectly across his left nipple, the metal buzzing it like a fanblade, and then Iron Man brought his arm back and slapped the other one, too.  Steve got his wish, the shouts and screams pouring out of him as Tony really set to work, slapping, pinching, rubbing—although the metal was too smooth to really work up any friction—and then slapping again, all while the warm scent of the leather corset rose around Steve, mingled with the smell of his own sex.  

By the time Tony stopped, Steve was limp in his arms, pliant and biddable and probably too deep under.  Tony eased him forward, shoving the poor abused blotter back towards the other end of the desk, then hurriedly stepped around again to stand between Steve’s legs.

 _“Steve,”_ he said, his concern obvious even through the scrambler.   _“Steve.  You with me, baby?”_

Steve groaned and picked his head up, making eye contact with glowing blue slits before nodding.  

Iron Man relaxed, and a grin suffused his voice.   _“Okay, baby.  We’re gonna go again; you want to come for me again, right?”_

“Oh, God, yeah—”  

Steve’s dick had been leaking for the past ten minutes, responsive to the torture in a way Steve sometimes tried not to look at too hard.  Coming—God, that sounded good—

Iron Man tossed one of Steve’s legs up, bending it at the knee so that it curled back against Steve’s chest. _“Hold,”_ he ordered, then repeated the gesture with the other one, so that Steve was holding himself spread and open, ready for whatever Tony chose to do.  Tony’s lube supply was apparently _in_ the suit, because his fingers were slick by the time he eased them back into Steve, who was still open and puffy-rimmed from the last round.  

Steve felt the moan climb up his throat at the touch, and he didn’t even try to stop it from escaping; his throat felt raw from all the noise he was making, but Tony had started with two fingers and wasn’t fucking around, this time, driving into Steve with them, rough and fast, hitting the prostate on every drive, hard enough that Steve was choking out sobs with every thrust.  Steve felt the tingling in his eyes and didn’t try to fight that, either, the tears gathering and running down his cheeks as he tossed his head desperately from side to side.  “Please, Iron Man—oh, God, Tony, _please—”_

Steve shook and broke, coming across his own stomach and chest, hitting his burning left nipple and even up to the hollow of his throat.  Iron Man worked him a couple times more, his mechanical fingers pumping Steve until Steve flinched and shied away from him, over sensitive at last.

He pulled his fingers free and, casually, wiped them on Steve’s inner thigh.  He reached out, pulling Steve up into a sitting position and then into his arms, cradling him against the corset and the arc reactor.  _“You okay, Cap?”_

Steve nodded, clinging.  He wasn’t quite, though; he wanted something, something more than what he had, and he thought—

—he knew, actually, what it was; he needed to get Tony off, needed to find a way inside the suit, inside the Iron Man armor.  His mouth watered at just the thought, at the idea of _unwrapping_ Tony, getting off the armor and the—

He moaned aloud, needy and greedy.

—getting inside the _corset,_ good God, getting to _ease off those stockings_ and—

_“Steve?”_

He clawed eagerly at the armor’s seems, right around the neck and shoulders; there was a catch up here, a place where it fastened, if he could only get to it—

_“Steve, baby, I need you to use your words; what do you want, here?”_

_“You,”_ Steve said, rousing quickly, now.  The corset laced up the front, and Steve was practically cutting his fingers off trying to work them underneath the too-tight laces.  

 _“You just had me.”_ Iron Man’s voice was amused.   _“You just came on my fingers, twice.  What do you—what, you mean my_ dick?”

“Yes.   _Yes._ Please, Tony—fuck, Iron Man—may I have—I _want_ it—”  The desperation was too much, now, rising to choke off his voice.  Steve was dimly aware with a turned-down portion of his mind that he was too far gone, that he needed to dial it back, but Iron Man had never let him fall yet, and he wasn’t too worried about it now, either.

Metal fingers tapped on Steve’s shoulder where Tony was holding him both back and up, a one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four pattern that was as familiar to Steve as Tony’s face. There was a humming noise, and an incomprehensible mutter that the outer speakers didn’t convey, and then the mic was just sensitive enough to catch it when Tony mumbled, _“Yeah, okay; we can do this.”_ Louder, voice intended now for Steve, he continued, _“So, you want my dick?  It goes the same way everything else did, Steve—you just have to ask.”_

Steve grumbled, climbing out of Tony’s grasp and falling to his knees, reaching for metal-jacketed hips.  Iron Man caught his wrists, then transferred them into one hand and yanking Steve’s head back by the hair.  His tone changed, becoming darker, less jovial, and Steve shuddered all over in pleasure at the way all that darkness lit him up inside. 

_“Do you want it, Steve; yes or no.”_

“Please, please,” Steve panted, but Iron Man had jumped on it almost before he had gotten the word out.

 _“Please_ what?”

Steve shuddered and came down a little, just enough to speak and be understood.  “Please,” he said again, “Please may I—oh God—please feed me your dick, Tony—"  And then, correcting himself, “—Iron Man.”

Tony grunted into the mic, and Iron Man opened the gauntlet, releasing Steve’s head.  Immediately, Steve leaned in, raising his hands to find the edges of the groin plating, his pinkies brushing the tops of the garters.  He knew where the clasps were, the closures that would let him get Tony out, but he also knew what would happen if he didn’t use them, which was nothing: the suit was modular, it would continue to function even if one piece broke. 

With that in mind, Steve raised his hands up, hooking his fingertips under the edge of the groin plate and pulling, tearing it free with a godawful shrieking sound.  He threw it across the room, hard; it flew straight from the sheer force of the throw, trailing the ripped-off garters like some kind of all-black peacock, until it buried itself in the wall.  The garters fluttered down against the wall like skinny, pathetic streamers; Tony’s stockings, through some magic of fashion or possibly engineering, stayed up.  

Steve leaned in, eager to get his mouth on Tony’s cock.

He mouthed at Tony through his underwear, a black lace affair that scratched at his lips, but tore easily under his teeth.  He coaxed Tony’s length—hard and purple at the tip, affected as much by the afternoon as Steve had been—out through the rip, then slid his hands around, cupping the smooth metal globes of Iron Man’s ass.  He pulled and ducked his head at the same time, gently forcing Tony’s length down his throat, feeling a sort of pause-button peace descend on him.

This was right; this right here was perfect, just sitting here, choking on Iron Man’s cock.  The head was nice and fat, just wide enough that Steve couldn’t breath properly, but that was perfect, too; the dizziness in his head was only a little bit the loss of oxygen.  Mostly, it was that this felt _so damn good,_ so _satisfying._  Steve drooled around Tony, and didn’t even care; he moaned, and the sound came out muffled by the cock in his throat.  His whole body lit up, effervescent with _yes._

If he could have, he would have purred.

Since he couldn’t, he did the next best thing:  he pulled back, just a little, and then used the extra room to go down again, setting a brisk, accelerating rhythm that Iron Man groaned and leaned into.  The gauntlet came down on Steve’s head again, but that was alright; Iron Man pulled Steve’s head in, but that was alright, too.  The other gauntlet came down, and now Iron Man was holding Steve’s head in both hands, fucking into his throat, thrusts short and quick and brutal, and that was just _perfect._ It was everything Steve wanted, and his brain lit up like fireworks as his eyes watered and his jaw ached.  His nipples were still stinging, too, brushing every now and then against the fishnets, and Steve broke, groaning around Tony’s dick until Tony came.  Tony—Iron Man—forced Steve’s mouth all the way down his length, hauling him in hard so that his lips ground against the short, dark hair of Tony’s pubes.

Steve swallowed what he could, but they had been building up to this one for a while, and when he choked and pulled back there was semen suddenly _everywhere:_  Steve’s mouth and lips, dripping down his chin.  Some of it had even landed on his throat and his poor, throbbing nips; Steve swiped at that last and succeeded mostly in just smearing it around.  His chest heaving with the return of his ability to breathe, he leaned forward, cuddling into fishnet-clad metal legs with his forehead pressed into the bottom edge of the corset.

* * *

Afterwards, he and Tony supported each other as they stumbled through the door to their bedroom.  Tony dropped the armor in the middle of the bedroom floor—not the first time he had done that, but the first time not after a fight—and steered them both into bed, swearing they would drink water and clean off in the morning.  

He was true to his word, too.  Steve overslept—he almost always did, the morning after Play—and woke to the feeling of a warm, soft chamois cloth gently wiping off his chest and face where the come had caked on.  Tony left Steve’s throat alone.

Steve came awake under the ministrations anyway, through, rolling onto his side and pulling at Tony’s arm grumpily.  Tony laughed at him, clear and tenor, nothing like the electronic voice of the armor.  He climbed obediently into bed again, sitting crosslegged on a pile of their pillows and allowing Steve to roll into into his lap, burying his head in Tony’s stomach in a mirror of their final position the night before.

Judging from the interested twitch of Tony’s cock, Tony was remembering that, too.

He didn’t make a move, though, sinking his hand into the soft strands of Steve’s hair, instead.  He scratched lightly at the fuzzy-duck stubble where Steve’s buzz was growing out in the back and hummed thoughtfully in his throat.  His fingers tapped against Steve’s skull:  one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four.

Steve grumbled, and smacked his lips.  Tony laughed at him again.  “So,” he said lightly, “corsets, huh?”

Steve grumbled again, this time in the affirmative, then begrudgingly roused himself enough to have a conversation.  “And the armor,” he admitted.  “You knew that, though.”

“I did.  I keep forgetting, though.”  Tony’s voice was rueful.  “I know you like Iron Man, I just... can never seem to remember how much you _like Iron Man.”_

“Hmmm,” Steve said.  A wickedly smug smile curled itself around his face.

Tony laughed and pretended to be scandalized.  “We could do good things with this, Steve.”

“We just did,” Steve pointed out.  

“Hmm, good point.”  Tony went back to scratching Steve’s skull, and Steve relaxed into his lap, waiting for the next question to arise.  It took about two minutes—warm, delicious minutes spend lying beneath a warm blanket, surrounded by the smell of _Tony—_ before the scratching fingers started to tap, tap, tap, instead.

“Hmm?”

Tony sighed.  “You didn’t pick the gag or the plug,” he observed.  “I thought for sure you’d do the plug—you love a good vibe.”

Steve thought about it for a second.  “It would have _vibrated?”_

“What, you didn’t notice it took batteries?”

“Wasn’t going to drop trou in my office,” he admitted.  “Figured you had a camera in there.”

The idly moving fingers on the back of his head went still.  Tony sounded like he almost didn’t want to even say anything as he pointed out, “You dropped trou in _my_ office...”

“Your office is monitored by JARVIS,” Steve reasoned.  “Mine may or may not go to security downstairs.”

There was a beat of silence while they both contemplated that footage crossing Happy’s monitor.  “Good call,” Tony said finally.  “But you still could have put it in in the bathroom.”

“...I didn’t think of that.”  

Another beat of silence.

“And you said it would’ve _vibrated?”_

Tony laughed out loud this time, scratching at Steve’s stubble again, and returned to his point.  “But the nipple clamps, those are a do-again?”

“Hmmmph,” Steve assured him.  “They’re strong stuff.  I set ‘em loose, and they were _still_ strong stuff.  I like it—but...”  

He nuzzled into the plump muscle of Tony’s thigh for a moment, gathering his courage.  It was harder to say this stuff in the heat of the moment then it was the morning after, but it wasn’t exactly easy now, either.  Steve was too shy, too circumspect, to let the filth flow out easily, the way Tony could.  Especially considering...

...well.

“But?” Tony prompted.  “But what?  But good?  Net positive?  Something you liked in spite of yourself?”

Steve raised his head to make eye contact and put on his Cap-face, clearing his throat for effect:

“I’d like ‘em a lot better if I were the one in the corset, son.”

 


End file.
